 CHAPTER XVIII. Heldon Foyle was on his feet in a second, and he pushed a chair towards his subordinate. Detective Inspector Waverly sat down and drummed nervously on his knees with the fingers of his left hand. "'Well, you've got back,' said the superintendent, in a non-committal tone. We were beginning to wonder what had happened to you. I hope that arm of yours is not badly hurt. What has been the trouble?' The Inspector winced and sat bolt upright in his chair. "'I guess I was to blame, sir,' he said. I fell into a trap like a new-joined cabbage boy. This man, Ivan Abramovich, must have known that he was followed by a couple of us, so he threw off Taylor, who was with me, very simply, by going into a big outfitter's place in the city. I dodged round to a second entrance, and sure enough he came out there. I couldn't get word to Taylor, so I picked him up, and a pretty dance he led me through a maze of alleys up the side of Petticoat Lane, and round about by the Whitechapel Road. You all know the sort of neighbourhood it is there. Well, I suppose I must have got a bit careless, for in taking a narrow twist in one of those alleys, someone dropped on me from behind. I hit out and yelled, but I didn't get a second chance, for my head was bumped hard down on the pavement, and I went to sleep for good and plenty. There were a couple of men in it, for I could hear him talking before I became properly unconscious. They dragged me along, linking their arms in mine, and we got into a cap. I guess the driver thought I was drunk, and that they were my pals helping me home. When I came round, my head was bandaged up, and I was in quite a decent little room, lying on a couch with Mr. Ivan Abramovich sitting opposite to me. I couldn't give a guess where it was, for the window only looked out on a blank wall. I sat up, and he grinned at me. I am a police officer, I said. How did I get here? I brought you, he says, with a grin. You were taking too great an interest in my doings for my liking. Now I am going to take an interest in yours. At that, I jumped for him, and got a knife through my arm for my pains. After he'd sworn at me like a trooper, in English, French, and Russian, for about ten minutes, he bandaged up the cut with his handkerchief, and told me if I made any more fuss I was in for trouble. Someone knocked at the door, but he ordered them off. You won't get away from here alive without permission, if I can help it, he said. But if you do, you won't be able to identify any one but myself. If you take it coolly, there'll be no harm come to you." I tried to bluff a bit, but he just laughed. And then I stayed with him in the same room, up to within an hour or two ago, when someone came into the house and he was summoned outside the door. They had an excited powwow, and I could hear a woman talking. Finally the man came back and told me they'd determined to let me go. He put a handkerchief over my eyes, and after a while I was taken down into what I thought was a taxicab. I was turned out a quarter of an hour ago at the black fryer's end of the embankment. Foil was by now striding up and down the office, his hands thrust deep in his trousers pockets. He paused long enough to blow down a speaking tube and put a quick question. What was the number of the cab? It had no police number, its index mark was AA 4796. The superintendent drew from his pocket a little black book, such as is carried by every police officer in London. On the outside was inscribed in white letters, Metropolitan Police Pocket Directory. He turned over the pages until he found what he wanted. A messenger had pushed ape in the door. Southampton registration said the superintendent, Johns get through on the phone to the South Hampton Police, and ask him to trace the owner of this car the moment the County Council office is open. The messenger disappeared, and he turned on waverly. The number is probably a false one, a board slipped over the real number, as they did in the Dulston case, when some American tufts went through that jeweller a month or two back. We might as well look into it, though. These people are widely customers, or they wouldn't have kept you from seeing the rest of the gang. They tried to frighten us by threatening to make away with you. I think it likely that they found it rather a nuisance to look after you, especially when Green and I tumbled on to some of their people an hour ago. You haven't exactly covered yourself with glory, waverly, but under the circumstances I shall take no disciplinary action. Now go and write out a full report, and then go home. The police surgeon will recommend what leave of absence you want to get over the stab in the arm. Good night, or rather, good morning. Thank you, sir. Good morning, sir. Foil never forgot discipline, which is as necessary or more necessary within limits in a detective service as in any other specialized business. To have sympathized with Waverly would have been bad policy. He had been made to feel that he had blundered in some way, and the feeling with which he had entered the room, that he was a martyr to duty, had vanished in the conviction that he was simply a fool. Foil lit a cigar, and fell into a reverie that lasted perhaps ten minutes. He was glad that Waverly was safe, but a little disgusted that he had failed to baffle the precautions taken while he was a prisoner, and so have learnt something that might have been of value in the investigations. Presently he lifted the telephone receiver and ordered a taxi cab from the all-night rank in Trafalgar Square. In a little while he was being world homeward. Not till midday next day did he arrive at the yard, a slip of paper was lying on his desk, the record of a telephone message from the Southampton police. It read, Halford, Chief Constable Southampton, to Foil, C. I. D., London. Car number A. A. 4796 belongs to Mr. J. Price, the Grange, Lindhurst. Mr. Price is an old resident in the neighborhood, and a man of means. The car is a six-cylinder napier. As I thought, commented Heldon Foil thoughtfully, tearing the paper into little bits and dropping them into the waste-paper basket, the number was a false one. They knew that Waverly would have a look at the number. Oh! These people are cunning, cunning! Green found him half an hour later, hard at work with the collection of typewritten sheets which formed the book of the case. Foil was still juggling with his jigsaw puzzle, trying to fit fresh facts in their proper position to old facts. Well! asked the superintendent abruptly. Green read from a paper in his hand. Lola, who is watching the Duke of Burley's house in Barkley Square, has just telephoned that a woman who corresponds to the description of Lola Rochelle, has just been admitted and is still there. Into Foil's alert eye is there shot a gleam of interest. You don't say so, he muttered, and then more alertly. Is he still on the telephone? If so, tell him to detain her, should she come out before I can get down. He must be as courteous as possible. We mustn't lose her now. And send a man down at once to bring wills, the butler at Gravener Gardens, here. She's the only man who saw the veiled woman enter the house on the night of the murder. From behind the curtains of the sitting-room Eileen Meredith could see two men occasionally pass and repass the house. They did not go by often, but she knew that even if she could not see them, they always held the house in view. They were not journalists, they were more sedate, older men, nor did they molest anyone who entered or left the house. They merely exercised a quiet and wearying, unobtrusive surveillance, and Eileen knew that Helden Foil had taken his own way of preventing her from seeing Sir Ralph Fairfield. She felt certain that where she to leave the house the men would follow her. She did not guess, however, that Foil had intended them to give her an opportunity of discovering their presence. She would be the more unlikely to persist in her rash resolve if she knew it would be frustrated. Nor did she know that Fairfield was equally closely watched in all his comings and goings. The hysterical outbreak that had been provoked by the superintendent's penetration of her doings when she had visited his office at Scotland Yard had been followed by hours of almost complete collapse. To her father enough had been told to make him hurriedly summon a specialist. The doctor explained, I have known similar cases follow a great shock. She is mentally unbalanced on one point. Unless anything occurs to excite her in connection with that, time will affect her cure. She must not be opposed in her wishes, and I would suggest that she be taken out of London and an effort made to distract her. Plenty of society, outdoor amusements, anything to occupy her mind. I suggested that we should leave London," said Lord Burley gloomily. She refuses. Then don't press her. Ask her friends to visit her, and don't let her leave the house except with a competent attendant. Although it was that Eileen found herself practically a prisoner in her own home. She received the visitors invited by her father at first with a mechanical courtesy, but later on with an assumption of cheerfulness that deceived her father, and even to more extent the doctor. She had begun to realize that she would never shake off the vigilance which surrounded her, until she had convinced folk that she had regained her normal spirits. Her capabilities as an actress, which had won for her leading parts in many amateur plays, had never been taxed so hardly. But then she had invariably been cast for comedy. Now she felt she was playing tragedy. For night and day she never forgot. Always there was one thought hammering at her brain. She withdrew into the room as a neat little motor-browam halted at the door. In a little while Mrs. Porter Strangeways was announced. Reluctantly Eileen condescended to welcome the portly middle-aged dame who was tacitly recognized as being the leader of American society in London. The girl smiled brightly as the woman rose to greet her with both arms outstretched. It is so good of you, dear Mrs. Porter Strangeways, she exclaimed, I have only my friends to look forward to now. Mrs. Porter Strangeways indicated her companion by some subtle means of her own. You poor girls, she exclaimed, throwing just the right reflection of sympathy into her not unmusical voice. I called before, but you were unfit to see any one then. I took the liberty of bringing a friend to see you, the Princess Petrovska. The name conveyed nothing to Eileen. She knew not how the woman she faced was concerned in the tangle in which she herself was involved. She saw only a slim, beautifully dressed woman, whose age might have been somewhere between thirty and forty, and who still laid claim to a gypsy-like beauty. The dark eyes of the Princess dwells upon the girl with a sort of well-bred curiosity. Mrs. Porter Strangeways imparted information in a swift whisper. A Russian title, I believe, met her in Rome two years ago. She is a delightful woman, so bright and happy, though I believe poor, dear, she had a terrible time before her husband died. She called on me yesterday and asked me to bring her to see you. She's so interested in you. You don't mind. The quick thought that she was being made a show of caused a spasm to flicker across Eileen's face. Almost instantly she regained her composure, and for half an hour Mrs. Porter Strangeways prattled on. The other took little part in the conversation. Eileen could feel that the Princess was watching her closely under her cast-down eyelashes. The woman repelled, and yet fascinated her. When the time came for leave-taking she found herself giving a pressing invitation to the other to call again, with a smile of satisfaction the Princess promised. They had not been gone a quarter of an hour when the Princess was announced alone. Eileen, a little astonished, received her questioningly. I had to see you alone, explained the older woman. I have something of importance to say to you. That's why I made Mrs. Porter Strangeways bring me. I fear that you would not see me otherwise. To see me alone, repeated Eileen, with the air of one completely mystified. Then, as the other nodded grimly, she closed the door of the room. With a murmur, pardon me, the Princess walked across the room and turned the key. It will be better so, she said. What I have to say must not be overheard. The life of a—someone—may depend on secrecy. Eileen had begun to wonder if her strange visitor were mad. There was something, however, in her quiet methodical manner that forbade the assumption. The Princess Petrovska had settled herself gracefully in a great armchair. No, I am not mad, she answered the unspoken question. I am quite in my senses, I assure you. I have come to you with a message from one you think dead, from Robert Grale. The room reeled before Eileen's eyes. She clutched the mantelpiece with one hand to steady herself. From one I think dead, she repeated, Bob is dead. She gripped the other woman fiercely by the shoulder and almost shook her in the intensity of her emotion. He is dead, I tell you. What do you mean? I know he is dead. Do not lie to me. He is dead. The Princess Petrovska glanced gravely up into the strained features of the girl. Her own face was a mask. Calm yourself, Lady Eileen, she said. You have been made the victim of a wicked deceit. He is not dead, but a man wonderfully like him is. I have come here at his request to relieve your mind. She dropped her voice to a whisper. At the same time he is in grave danger, and you can help him. The girl's hands dropped to her side, and she regarded her visitor helplessly. A new hope was beginning to steal into her heart, but her reason was all on the other side. He is dead, she protested faintly. Fairfield killed him. Why should he hide if he is not dead? Why should he not come here himself? Why should he send you? Don't be a fool, retorted the other impatiently, and the impertinence of the words had the effect intended of bracing the half-fainting girl. He does not come because to do so would be madness, because if he showed himself he would be at once arrested by Scotland Yard detectives. They believe him to be the murderer of his double, a man named Goldenberg. There is a note he gave me for you. The letters danced before Eileen's eyes as she tore open the thin envelope, and held what was undoubtedly Robert Grel's writing in her shaking hand. She was startled as never before in her life save when she heard of the murder. Slowly she read the words biting into her brain. Dearest, forgive me for not letting you know before that I am safe. I had no means of communicating with you with safety. The man who is dead was killed by no wish of mine, yet I dared not run the risk of arrest. The bearer of this is an old friend of mine who will herself be in peril by delivering this. Trust her, and destroy this. She will tell you how to keep in touch with me. There was no signature. Mechanically Eileen tore the letter in two and dropped the fragments on the blazing fire. She felt the dark eyes of the princess upon her as she did so, as spasm of jealousy swept across her at the thought that this woman should have been trusted, should have had the privilege of helping Grel rather than herself. She strove to push it aside as unworthy. He was alive. He was alive. The thought was dominant in her mind. She could have sung for very joy. Well, asked the princess. I don't understand, said Eileen wearily. He does not explain. There is nothing clear in the note, but that he is alive. He daresay no more—we, that is, he's, succeeded in evading the police so far. If by any chance that letter had fallen into their hands, it would have told them no more than they knew at present. Where is he? demanded Eileen. I must go to him. No, that will never do. You would be followed. I will give any message for you. You can help, but not in that way. He is in need of money. Have you any of your own? Can you let him have, say, five hundred pounds at once?" The girl reflected a moment. There is my jewellery, she said at last. He or you can raise more than five hundred on that. Wait a moment. She left the room, and a smile flitted across the gray face of the princess. A few moments later she returned with a little silver casket in her hands. And now she said, Tell me what happened. Who killed this man Goldenberg? The princess Petrovsko gave a dainty little shrug. Mr. Grel shall tell you that in his own fashion, she said. Listen. In that she talked rapidly, now and again writing something on a slip of paper, and showing it to Eileen. The girl nodded in comprehension, occasionally interjecting a question. At last the princess rose. You fully understand, she said. I fully understand, echoed Eileen. CHAPTER XXXV of the Grel Mystery. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Christine Blashford. The Grel Mystery by Frank Froust. CHAPTER XXXV Helden Foil had been prepared to take any risk rather than allow the princess Petrovsko to escape him again. There was nothing against her but suspicion. It was for him to find evidence that might link her with the crime. It is in such things that the detective of actuality differs from the detective of fiction. The detective of fiction acts on moral certainties which would get the detective of real life into bad trouble. To arrest the princess was out of the question. Even to detain her might make matters awkward. Yet the superintendent had made up his mind to afford Wills the butler a sight of her at all costs. If Wills identified her it would be at least another link in the chain of evidence that was being forged. He carried the butler in a taxi cab with him to the nearest corner to the Duke of Burley's house. A well-groomed man sauntered up to them and shook hands warmly with Foil. She has not come out yet, he said. Good! exclaimed Foil. Come on, Wills. You have a good look at this woman when she does come out, and stoop down and tie your shoelace if she is anything like the woman who visited Robert Grail on the night of the murder. Be careful now. Don't make any mistakes. If you identify her you'll probably have to swear to her in court. But I never saw her face, complained Wills helplessly. I told you I was not certain I'd know her again. He was palpably nervous and unwilling to play the prominent part that had been assigned to him. Foil laughed reassuringly. Never mind. You have a look at her old chap. You never know in these cases. You may remember her when you see her. Everyone walks differently, and you may spot her by that. It won't do any harm if you don't succeed. He led Wills to a spot a few paces away from the house, but out of view of anyone looking from the windows, and gave him instructions to remain where he was. He himself returned to the corner where Taylor, the detective inspector who had greeted them when they drove up, was waiting. The other end of that side of the square was guarded by one of Taylor's assistants. Lola was trapped, if Foil wished her to be trapped. He beckoned to a uniformed constable who was pacing the other side of the road. The man nodded, detectives whatever their rank never saluted, and took up his position a few paces away. They had not long to wait. A taxi cab whizzed up to the house, evidently summoned by telephone. Wills was staring as they fascinated, at the slim erect figure of the woman outlined on the steps of the house. He half-stooped, then straightened himself up again. The superintendent muttered an oath under his breath and nodded to the loitering policeman. The constable immediately sprang into the roadway with arm outstretched, and the cab which was just gathering way was pulled up with a jerk. The blue uniform is more useful in some cases than the inconspicuous mufty of this CID. Get hold of Wills and bring him after us to Malchester Row police station, and opening the door he stepped within as the driver dropped in the clutch. The princess had half risen and gave a little cry of dismay at the intrusion. With Grimm's set face, the detective adjusted his tall form to the limits of the cab, and sat down beside her. His hand encircled her wrist, and he forced her back to the seat. I shouldn't try to open the door if I were you, he said quietly. You might fall out." The woman dropped back and did some quick thinking. She had no difficulty in guessing who Foil was, and she could scarcely have failed to see the staring figure of the butler as she left the Duke of Burley's house. She fenced for time, doing the astonished, outraged, half-frightened, innocent perfection. What does this mean? How dare you molest me? Where are you taking me?" The detective smiled easily as he answered in the formal words of CID custom. I am a police officer—perhaps I needn't tell you that—and I am taking you to Malchester Row police station. To arrest me you would dare—do you know I am the Princess Petrovska? There is some mistake. I shall appeal to the Russian ambassador. What do you say I have done? I am a friend of Lady Eileen Meredith, the daughter of the Duke of Burley. She will tell you I have only just left her. You are confusing me with someone else." It was admirably done. The mixture of indignation and haughtiness might have imposed upon some people, and the threat of appeal to the Russian ambassador had been very adwart. Heldenfoyle merely nodded. This is not a rest, he replied. It is not even detention, unless you force me to it. I am inviting you to accompany me to give an account of your movements on the night that Harry Goldenberg was murdered. I will call your bluff, Lola, and we will call it the ambassador's if you like. She made a gesture with one hand, as of a fencer acknowledging a hit, and turning her head smiled sweetly into his face. Nevertheless, in spite of everything, she felt a little nervous. She had gone to see Eileen with her eyes not fully open to the risk she ran. Deftly used, newspapers have their uses. In supplying the story of the murder to the pressmen, Foyle had omitted all mention of the finding of the miniature. The woman had not known that Scotland Yard had a portrait of her, and had deemed it unlikely that she would be recognized by the watchers of the house. Although she had lived by her wits in many quarters of the world, she had hitherto avoided trouble with the police in England. She wondered how much Foyle knew. It was evidently of no use trying to impress him with the importance of her rank and connections. Princesses are cheap in Russia. You are, Mr. Helden Foyle, of course, she said, I have heard that you are very clever. I don't see what I can have had to do with the murder, even if I am, Lola Rochelle, which I admit. We shall see. Can you prove where you were between ten o'clock, when you left the palatial hotel, and midnight, on that date? She laughed merrily. You are not so clever as I thought, she exclaimed. Do you think the time of murderous? I went straight to a hotel near Charon Cross, the splendid, and caught the nine o'clock boat-train to Paris. It is easily proved. Foyle shifted to the seat opposite, so that he could see her face more easily. Then you don't deny that you visited Gravener Gardens that night, that you were admitted by Ivan Abramovich, Grail's valet, and taken to his study. Of course I do, she retorted, laughingly. If that's all you've got to go upon, you may as well let me go now. Very well, we shall see, he answered. The cab stopped at Malchester Ray police station. CHAPTER XXXXIV To the constable who opened the cab door, Foyle gave quick instructions in a low voice. The princess Petrovska found herself ushered into a plainly furnished waiting-room, decorated with half-a-dozen photographic enlargements of the portraits of high police officials and a photographic of her Majesty the Baby. There the policeman left her. Foyle came to her a moment later. His couple of questions to the cabman, as he paid him, had not been fruitful. He had been ordered by the lady to drive to Waterloo station. It was a fairly obvious ruse, which would have had the effect of effectually confusing her trail, for from there she might have taken train, tube, omnibus, tram, or cab again to about any point in London. I am sorry, he apologised. We shall have to keep you here for an hour or two while your statements are verified. I don't mind, she countered lightly. It will be an amusing experience. I have never seen a police station before. Perhaps you would like to show me over while we are waiting, Mr. Foyle. The superintendent was admiring her confidence a little roofily. A pleasant-faced, buxom woman tapped at the door, and Lola eyed her with misgivings. Foyle's blue eyes were fixed on her face. I am afraid I must deny myself that pleasure, he said, swavly. There are other matters which will take up our time. Perhaps I shall be obliged if you will let the matron here search you. The nonchalance of the Princess Petrovska had disappeared in a flash, and Foyle noted her quick change of countenance. She had recollected she was carrying Lady Eileen Meredith's jewels. They would inevitably be found if she were searched. She was not so much worried by what explanation she could give as to what would be the result of a questioning of Eileen. Angrily defiant she was on her feet in a flash. You have no right to search me. I am not under arrest, she declared. Foyle knew she was right. What he was doing was flagrantly unlawful unless he charged her with some offence. Yet there are times when it is necessary for a police officer to put a blind eye to the telescope and to do technically illegal things in order that justice may not be defeated. This he felt was one of the occasions. He ignored her protestations and left the room, closing the door after him. For a brief moment the woman forgot the breeding of the Princess Petrovska in the fiery passion of Lola the dancer, but if she meditated resistance a second's reflection convinced her that it would be futile. The matron, for all her good-tempered face, was well developed muscularily and did not seem the kind of woman to be trifled with. The Princess submitted with as good a grace as she could muster. As the woman drew forth the casket of Jules Lola made one false move. She laid a slim-gloved hand on her arm. If you want to earn ten pounds you will give me that back, she said softly. The matron shook her head with so resolute an expression that the word twenty, which trembled on the Princess Petrovska's lips, was never uttered. Everything in her hands, the articles she had found, she stepped outside. In three minutes her place was taken by foil. He quietly returned to her everything but the jewel-case, this he held between his fingers. Where did you get this, he demanded? His voice was keyed to the stern, official tone he knew so well how to assume. She gripped the side of a chair tightly. What is that to do with you? It is mine. Give it to me. Not unless you can prove it is yours. If you do not, I shall charge you with being in possession of property suspected to be stolen. She bit her lips until the blood came, her face had become very pale. If the threat were meant seriously, and she could see no reason why it should not be, she was in an awkward predicament. Ordinarily she had ready resource, a fertile genius for invention. Now her wits seemed to have deserted her. Cuddle her brains as she would she could see no way out of the difficulty. To boldly state that the jewels had been entrusted to her by Eileen would involve opening up a fresh line of inquiry for the CID men that might have disastrous results. Nor was there any person who might bear out a story invented on the spur of the moment. Well, he spoke coldly. I refuse to tell you where I got them, she retorted. You must do as you like. Then it is my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You will be charged. He opened the door and cried down the corridor, Reserve! To the constable who answered he indicated the princess by a nod. Take this woman to the detention-room, if you will be paraded for identification in half an hour. The detention-room of a London police station is a compromise between the comparative luxury of a waiting-room and the harshness of a cell. Like a waiting-room it is furnished with chairs and tables, and like a cell its door is provided with a strong, self-acting lock. The princess Petrovsko gritted her teeth viciously as she was left alone, and paid no heed to the magazines and papers left on the table, a consideration for visitors that had not been discernible in the waiting-room. Meanwhile, Foil had set every available man of the divisional detachment of the CID busily at work. A couple had been sent to verify the account given by the woman of her movements on the night when the murder occurred. The remainder had been sent to bring in a score of women, the wives and daughters of inspectors, and other senior officers. Detective Inspector Taylor had turned up with wills, who was informed of the part he had to play. You say you couldn't recognise the woman who came out of Lord Burley's house. Now we're going to give you another try. We don't want you to pick anyone out unless you're absolutely sure. Mind that. Some of the women who had been fetched in by the detectives were rejected by Foil as being too unlike the Princess. He intended the identification test to be as fair as possible. The ten who finally took their places in the high-pitched charge-room were as nearly like the Princess in build and dress as could be managed from the choice afforded. They stood in a row on the opposite side of the room from the steel-railed dock and the high desk. Then Lola was brought in. Her head was held high, and her lips curled superciliously as she took in the arrangements. Please choose a position among these ladies," said Foil urbeignly. You may stand any way you like. There was an angry glitter in her dark eyes as she obeyed. She was not the sort of woman to risk a scene uselessly. Then Wills was brought in. Foil put a formal question to him. Have you seen any of these ladies before? Don't be in a hurry to answer. Walk down the line and take a good look at each. Wills slowly carried out his instructions. As he reached the last woman he shook his head. Lola's eyes caught those of Foil with a glance of malicious triumph, but the superintendent was not done yet. Walk round the room if you please, ladies, from left to right. Know a little quicker. Now, Wills, see if you can recognize any of them by their walk. Three times they made the circuit of the room, while the butler darted nervous glances from one to the other. It's no good, sir, he confessed at last. I don't know any of them. To Foil the result was not unexpected. He had adopted the expedient as a full-on chance of linking up the princess with the crime. Now it had failed, he intended to try other measures. He dismissed Wills and the women with a nod of caution not to speak of the formality they had witnessed, and at a nod from him a uniformed inspector stood up by the high desk, pen in hand. Do you charge this woman, Mr. Foil, he asked? Taylor had ranged up against her, and almost unconsciously she found herself standing by the desk facing the officer. She searched the superintendent's inflexible face to see if it gave any sign of relenting. Foil was calm, inscrutable, businesslike. That was what had struck her from the moment she entered the police station, the cool businesslike fashion in which these men had dealt with the situation. There were no histrionics. They might have been clerks engaged in some monotonous work for all the emotion they evinced. They treated her as impersonally as though she was a bale of goods about which there was some dispute. She was not a person easily daunted, but the atmosphere chilled her. She reflected quickly that her refusal to explain the possession of the jewels was playing into Helden Foil's hands. He would guess that they were Eileen Merediths. In any case she could not stop him from seeing and questioning the girl. What advantage would it be to be placed under lock and key, before the superintendent could reply she had made up her mind? One moment I can explain how I got the jewels if I can see Mr. Foil alone. The inspector looked hesitatingly at the superintendent who was stroking his chin with his hand. Foil murmured an ascent and led the way back to the detention room. The woman swung round to him quickly once they were alone. Those jewels were entrusted to me for a particular purpose by Lady Eileen Meredith, she said peremptorily. That is all you have any right to know. You can easily ring her up and ask her. Do it at once and let me go. Very well, he said, imperturbably, I shall keep you here until I have done so. But it was not to Barkley Square that he telephoned from the privacy of the divisional CID offices. It was to Scotland Yard. Within five minutes Chief Inspector Green was setting out from the great Redbrick building to see first the Duke of Burleigh, and secondly Lady Eileen Meredith. A full hour passed away, and Foil received the result of the inquiries into Petrovska's movements. Her alibi was complete. In every particular her story of her movements had proved right. Green arriving at the police station with an agitated and puzzled nobleman and his solicitor saw his chief for a few moments alone. She admits having handed over the jewels to Lola, but she won't say a word beyond that, he said. She's as obstinate as a mule. I have told the Duke something of where we stand, and he has agreed to take the gems back without letting her know. It was a tough job, but I got him to see at last that the girl might be implicating herself. He says he's never heard of Petrovska. Hmm! Foil rubbed his chin vigorously. I'll have a talk with the old boy. See if you can get the public carriage-office to borrow us a taxi cab, and get pulled to drive it slowly up and down this street. If she hails it when she goes out, well and good. If not, Bolton you had better follow her, and the cab will come after you so that you can use it in emergency. Green had done his work with the Duke and the lawyer with tact. Foil found his interview with them confined to evading questions that he had no wish to answer. He dismissed them at last with the jewels in the custody of the man of the law. Then he went straight to his prisoner. You can go, he said abruptly. I shall ask you to be very careful, however, Princess, if you are wise you will leave England at once. Why, she asked, opening her blue eyes wide and gazing at him with blank astonishment. His voice became silky. Because my dear lady, he said, I feel that your career in England may not be altogether without reproach. I shall try to find out a little more about it, and if I get a chance, I warn you frankly, I shall have you taken into custody. You are too mischievous to be allowed to run around loose. Her red lips parted in a scornful smile. Oh, you make me tired, she retorted. Goodbye, Mr. Foil. Pardon me, he said, and thrusting a couple of fingers into his waistcoat pocket, fished out a piece of paper. Do you know this writing? She handed the piece of paper back to him with a shake of the head. No, I never saw it before, she retorted, and passed out. But Helden Foil had her fingerprints. CHAPTER XXII Sir Hilary Thornton lifted his coattails to the cheerful blaze as he stood with his back to the fireplace. Helden Foil, with the book which he was giving his nights and days to compiling on the desk in front of him, sat bolt upright in his chair, talking swiftly. He was giving an account of the progress of the investigation. Now and again he ran a well-manicured finger down the typewritten index, and turned the pages over quickly to refer to a statement, a plan, or a photograph. Or he would lift one of the speaking tubes behind his desk, and send for some man who had been charged with some inquiry to question him on his report. These youngsters are all the same, he complained querilously, they will put flowers into their reports. There's always a beast of a job to make him understand that we want a fact plain and prompt. They can do it all right in the witness box, but when they get a pen in their hand they fancy their budding Shakespeare's. The old hands know better. He passed from this outburst to particulars of what had happened. The assistant commissioner listened gravely, now and again interpolating a question or a suggestion. Foil rapidly ran over the case, emphasising his points with a tap of his finger on the pile of papers. We're progressing a little, though not so fast as I'd like. We know that Grel is alive, that he is in touch with Ivan Abramovich and Lola Rochelle, or the Princess Petrovska, as she calls herself. There is at least one of the men in it, probably more. It's fairly certain that Grel knows who killed Harry Goldenberg, even if he didn't do it himself. Goldenberg was apparently dressed in Grel's clothes before he was killed. It is clear now that the clothes were his own with Grel's belongings put in the pockets. A Mexican dagger was used. That may be, or may not be of importance. Grel has travelled in Mexico. We have eliminated Ivan and Sir Ralph Fairfield as the actual murderers, nor do the Princess Petrovska's fingerprints agree. I had Bolt take the fingerprints of all the servants in the house, so that we are sure that none of them actually committed the crime. All this narrows the investigation. If we find Grel, we are in a fair way to finding the author of the murder. Sir Hillary Thornton stroked his moustache doubtfully. That's all very well, Foil, but Mr. Grel is hardly the sort of man to commit murder. I gather that your suspicions point to him, besides where is the motive? Every man is the sort of man to commit murder, retorted the superintendent quickly. You can't class assassins. All murders must be looked upon as problems in psychology. Mind you, I don't say that Grel did have a hand in this murder. I am merely summing up the cold facts. Why should he disappear? Why should he mix himself up with the shady crew he is with, people who have twice tried to murder me, and who knocked out and kidnapped waverly? If we find him, we shall find the murderer. That's why I wanted the description of Goldenberg sent out. It makes work. Two men out of town now working on statements made at Plymouth and Nottingham, which I feel sure will have no result, but it gives us a sporting chance to nail him if he tries to leave the country. Another line we're looking after is money. He's failed with Fairfield. Lola had a try with Lady Eileen Meredith, who handed over her jewels. We stepped in, bagged him, and gave him back to the Duke of Burley. All this means he'll have to make some desperate try for cash soon. In fact, it's Czech, commented Sir Hillary, who is something of a chess player. Now you're manoeuvring for checkmate. Precisely, said Foyle, I've been trying, too, to get hold of something about Goldenberg. Neither we nor the American police have yet been able to connect him up with Grail. We're still trying, though. Sooner or later we shall get hold of something. And there's Lola. If we could have got wills to identify her as the veiled woman, we should have had a very good excuse for arresting her in spite of her alibi. She's the sort of woman who would prepare an alibi. We've not got any proof that she knew Goldenberg. That's our great difficulty now, to link up the various persons, and find out how they've been associated with each other before. There's one thing, sir. I've managed to get the inquest adjourned for a month, so we shan't have to make any premature disclosures in evidence. The newspapers are still hanging about. They got wind that something was happening at Malchester Row, and there were a dozen or more men waiting for me when I came out. I told them that we'd been trying to identify a woman and had failed. They'd have known that, anyway. They promised to be discreet. They're good chaps. It isn't like the old days. There was one man, Winters, his name was, who came up to the yard to see me once. He was told I was at Vine Street. He went down there, and was told I hadn't been there. He is a piece of luck, he says to himself, and went back to his office. There he wrote up a couple of columns telling how the whole of the CID had lost trace of me. I came out of Bow Street, where I'd been giving evidence in a case, to see a big contents bill staring me in the face. Famous detective vanishes. Before I could buy a paper, another newspaper chat comes along. He stared at me as if I was a ghost. Hello, he says. Don't you know you're lost? Every press man in London is looking for you. Am I? Says I. How? Since then I've been very careful in dealing with newspaper men. Sir Hilary laughed and nodded. Is there anything more? He asked. Yes. Foil had grown grave once more. I handed over the cipher that we found at Grave Street to Jones, to see if he could make anything out of it. He's an expert at these kind of puzzles. Well, he's just reported that the thing is simple as it stands, though in other circumstances it might be difficult. The translation runs, this will be the best method of communicating with E.M. if L supplies her with key, her phone number 12845 Gerard. CHAPTER XXIII Unless the case is elucidated within a day or two of the commission of an offence, the first hot pursuit resolves itself into a dogged, wearysome, but untiring watchfulness on the part of the CID. A case is never abandoned while there remains a chance, however slight, of running a criminal to earth. And even when the detectives, like Hounds, Baffled at Ascent, are called off, there remains the gambler's element of luck. Even if the man who had original charge of the case should be dead when some new element reopens an inquiry, the result of his work is always available, stored away in the registry at Scotland Yard. There are statements, reports, conclusions, the case complete up to the moment he left it. The precaution is a useful one. A deathbed confession may implicate Confederates, accomplices may quarrel, a jealous woman may give information. There have been unsolved mysteries, but no man may say when a crime is unsolvable. Heldon Foyle had many avenues of information when it was a matter of ordinary professional crime. The old catch word honor among thieves was one he had little reason to believe in. There was always a trickle of information into headquarters by subterranean ways. The common places of crime were effectively looked after. Murders are the exception in criminal investigation work, and while other crimes may be dealt with by certain predetermined if elastic rules, homicide had to be considered differently. Yet Foyle had caused to think that there might be little harm in setting to work the underground agencies, which at first sight seemed to have little enough in common with the mystery of the rich Robert Grell. These spies and informers would try to cheat and trick him. Some of them might succeed. It would cost money, but money that might not be wasted. Four of the five chief detective inspectors who formed the general staff of the CID were in the room, among them Wagnerl, who had passed a quarter of a century in the East End and knew the lower grades of crooks thoroughly, collectively, and individually. Foyle shut the door. I wish some of you would pass the word among our people that we will pay pretty handsomely for any one who puts us onto the gang mixed up in this Grell business. Word it differently to that. You'll know how to put it. You might get hold of Sheeny Foster, Wagnerl, or Poodle Murphy, or Buck Taylor. They may be able to nose out something. Buck was sent up for six months for jumping on his wife, said Wagnerl. I haven't seen Sheeny lately, but I'll try to get hold of him, and I'll have the word passed along. So having made the first step in enlisting a new and formidable force of guerrillas on the side of the law, Foyle went back to his office to revolve the problem in his brain once more. His thoughts wandered to Sir Ralph Fairfield. He was a man whose services would be invaluable if he could be persuaded to help. Foyle knew him, trusted him. Foyle was a man who never neglected the remotest chances. He deemed it worth trying. True, so far as their encounters were concerned, Fairfield had not been encouraging. He would probably need delicate handling. Foyle wrote a note, scrutinized it rapidly, and going out gave it to a clerk to be sent at once by special messenger. Mr. Heldon Foyle presents his compliments to Sir Ralph Fairfield, and would be obliged if he could see him at his office at six o'clock this evening, or failing that by an early appointment on a matter of urgent importance. That was all it said. Foyle never wasted a word. At five minutes past six that evening Sir Ralph Fairfield was announced. He ignored the offer of a chair which was made by the superintendent, and stood with stony face a few paces from the door. Foyle was too wise to offer his hand. He knew it would not be accepted. He nodded affably. Good evening, Sir Ralph. I was hoping you would come. I would not have troubled you, but that I felt you would like to know how we are getting on. You are a friend of Mr. Grails. Well, said Sir Ralph frigidly, I am here, Mr. Foyle, will you let me know what you want to say and have done with it? His manner was entirely antagonistic. There was still a lingering fear of arrest in his mind, but his attitude was in the main caused by the fact that he believed he had been suspected by the other. The superintendent partly guessed what was passing in his mind. I want your word first, Sir Ralph, that what I tell you shall not be spoken of by you to any living soul, he said. Then I will tell you frankly and openly the whole history of our investigation, and you can decide whether you will help us or not. No, wait a moment. I know how loyal a friend you were of Robert Grails, and it's in the light of that, as I am going to trust you. He is not dead. He is in hiding. It is for you to say whether you will help us to find him. If he is innocent, he has nothing to fear. He was watching the other closely while he sprung the fact that Grail was alive upon him. He wanted to know whether it was really a surprise, whether in spite of the vigilance of the CID men, Grail or his companions had managed to communicate with Fairfield. The baronet had opened his mouth to speak. A flicker of colour came and went in his pale cheeks, and he fingered his stick nervously. Then his jaw set, and he strode to where the superintendent was sitting, and clutched him tightly by the arm. What's all this, he demanded hoarsely? Do you mean to say Grail is not dead? As far as I know he is as alive as you or I at this present minute, said Foyle. If you want to hear about it all, give me your word and sit down. You're hurting my arm. I beg your pardon, said the baronet mechanically, and stepping back seated himself in a big armchair that flanked the desk. He passed his hand in a dazed fashion across his forehead, and his composure came back to him. Staggering, incredible as the statement seemed, there was that in Foyle's quiet tones that gave it the stamp of truth. Of course I'll give you my word, he said. Foyle was satisfied that the baronet knew nothing. There was a deeper policy behind the pledge he had exacted than that of preventing a leakage of confidence. Fairfield would not go behind his word, in that the superintendent had judged him accurately. The pledge would also tie his hands should Grail or his companions eventually manage to communicate with him, even if he decided not to help the police, he would find it difficult without going behind his word to assist the missing explorer. From the beginning he traced the trend of the investigation. Fairfield leaning forward and listening attentively, his lips tight pressed. As Foyle brought out the points, the baronet now and again jerked his head in understanding. The detectives slurred nothing, not even the accusation and resolve of the Lady Eileen Meredith. The baronet choked a little. He thinks she really meant to kill me. He waved his hand impatiently as Foyle nodded. Never mind that. Go on, go on. Foyle finished his recapitulation. Sir Ralph's eyes were fixed on a vanity fair cartoon of the commissioner of police hanging framed on the wall. He was trying to readjust his thoughts. From a man who believed himself under deadly suspicion he had suddenly become a confident of Scotland Yard. He had been released of all fear for himself. And Bob Grail was alive after all. That, he reflected, was the queer thing. What did it mean? There was the reason for this extraordinary tangle of complications. Grail always was deep, but so far as his friend knew he was a man strictly honourable. How had he come to be involved in an affair that looked so black against him? There was Eileen to be considered too. In spite of himself, he could readily believe the story of the pistol. She had believed him guilty of the murder. Her mood, when last he saw her, had been that of a woman who would stoop to anything to compass her vengeance. But she knew he was not guilty now. That might make a difference to his course of action. Should he throw in his lot with Foil and assist in bringing Grail within the reach of the law? What do you say, Sir Ralph? Will you help us? Foil's suave voice broke in upon the thread of his thoughts. He shook himself a little and met the detective's steady gaze. If I do, will it mean that you will arrest Grail for murder? The superintendent caressed his chin and hesitated a little before replying. I have been quite open with you, Sir Ralph. I don't know. As things are at present it looks uncommonly as though he had a hand in it. He is the only person who can clear himself. While he remains in hiding everything looks black against him. We have managed to keep things quiet until the resumption of the inquest. When that takes place we shall not be able to maintain the confusion of identity. With things as they stand the jury are practically certain to return a verdict of murder against him. If he is not guilty his best chance is for us to find him. Understand me, Sir Ralph. If he is innocent you are doing him no service by refraining from helping us. Every day makes things blacker. If he is guilty, well it is for you to judge whether you will shield a murderer even if he is your friend. To another person Foil would have used another method of persuasion, talking more but saying less. He had staked much on his estimate of the baronet's character, and awaited his reply with an anxiety of which his face gave no trace. Very rare were the occasions on which he had told so much of an unfinished investigation to another person, and that person not an official of Scotland Yard. Often he had feigned to open his heart with the same object, to win confidence by apparent confidence. The difference now was that he had given the facts without concealment or suppression. Fairfield fingered his watch-chain, and the big office-clock loudly ticked five minutes away. I will assist you as far as I can, but you must allow me to decide when to remain neutral, he said at last. Agreed, said Foil, and the two shook hands on the bargain. CHAPTER XXIV Dutch Fred changed his seat to one less conspicuous and further of the tram-car. He felt that his luck was dead-out, that life was a blank, and that Helden Foil of all men should have chosen that particular moment to board that particular tram-car had, as Fred would have expressed it, absolutely put the lid on. Fred knew very well how to circumvent the precaution taken by order of the police that public vehicles should have the back of the seats filled in to prevent pocket-picking, instead of sitting behind a victim, one sat by his side, with a stall behind to pass the plunder to. A dip of class, and Dutch Fred was an acknowledged master, never keeps his plunder on him for a single second longer than necessary. But with Foil on the car it was too expensive to operate, especially single-handed. Therefore Fred felt the world a dreary place. He had boarded the car alone, and without thought of plunder, had it been in professional hours he would have had at least one stall, perhaps two with him. As chance would have it, a portly businessman with a massive gold chain spanning his ample waist had seated himself next to the operator, and Fred had decided that the watch on the end of the cable was worth risking an experiment upon. Besides, the appearance of prosperity of the mug spoke of a possible leather stuffed with banknotes, decidedly even in the absence of a stall it was worth chanceing. And then Foil got on, and spoiled it all, if any one on the tram car lost anything he would know who to blame. For Helden Foil had spoiled one of the greatest coups that ever a crook had been on the verge of bringing off. Fred, immaculately clad and with irreproachable references, had approached Greenfield's, the Bond Street Jewelers, with a formula for manufacturing gold. He had discovered the philosopher's stone. Of course I don't want you to go into this until I've proved that it can actually be done," he said airily. See there, I made that handful of gold dust myself. You test it, and see that it's all right. Now I'll sell you the secret of making that for one hundred thousand pounds. I don't want the money till I've given you a demonstration." So an arrangement was fixed up. The Jewelers, with a faith that long experience had not destroyed, believed in Fred. Nevertheless they took the precaution of calling in Foil, then unknown to Fred, saved by name. In a little room in Clarkinwell the experiment took place. With ingenious candour, Fred prepared a crucible in front of his select audience after the various ingredients had been submitted to strict examination. Then he placed it on the fire, and stirred the contents occasionally. At last the process was finished, and at the bottom of the crucible was found a teaspoonful of undoubted gold dust. Then while Fred, with a broad smile of satisfaction, awaited comment, the detective, who had noted the strange fact that he had kept his gloves on while staring the crucible, stepped up to him, and deftly whipped one off. In the fingers were traces of gold dust enough to convict Fred and get him three years at the Old Bailey. Out of the corner of his eyes Fred watched the detective presently stand up, and pass along the deck of the car towards him. The operator's face was bland, and he smiled with the consciousness of one who has nothing to hide as the superintendent sat down beside him. Hello, Mr. Foil. I'm glad to see you, he said, with a heartiness that he knew did not deceive the other. It's a long time since we met. The detective returned the greeting with a cheerfulness that was entirely unassumed. It's a piece of luck meeting you, Freddie, he went on, but there I always was lucky. You're just the man in the wide world I've been wanting to see. What's on, growled Freddie, with quick suspicion. Oh, you're all right, the detective reassured him. I want you to help me. Let's get off at the next stop in place and have a drink. His fears allayed, Freddie followed the detective off the car. They were professional enemies, it was true, but as a rule their relations were amicable. It was policy on both sides. In the saloon bar of an adjacent public house, Freddie unburdened himself fully and frankly while he sipped the mixed vermouth. I'm glad you struck me, on my word I am, he said earnestly, while his active wits were wondering what the detective wanted. That bloke was carrying a red clock, and though I was going for it I had a feeling I should get into trouble. If you'd been a minute or two later you'd, why talk of these unpleasant things, Freddie, said Foil, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. You know how I'd hate to have to do anything to disturb your peace of mind. He drew him to a secluded corner of the lounge. Come over here. Now listen, do you know Goldenberg or any of his pals? Freddie started a little, and looked meditatively at the tips of his well-polished boots. The chap that did in Grell—I knew him a bit, he said cautiously. He was in a different line, you know, mostly works alone, too—I can't say that I know much about him. There's Charlie Eden, he was in with him once, I guess he's in town. And Red Ike, he knew him too—perhaps there's some more of the boys who had some does with him. But he always was a bit above us, common crooks. I only went for Big Game once, his gaze lingered on Foil's ring, and then it didn't come off. Never mind about Eden, you keep your eye skin for Red Ike or anyone else that knew Harry, and give me the office—it'll be worth your while. You can come to me if you're hard up. Have a shot at Blank and Blank and Blank. He named several public houses which are known rendezvous for crooks of all classes. You see what you can pick up, and if ever you're in trouble, you'll know the wife and kid will be looked after. Freddie grinned cynically to hide a real appreciation. He knew that Foil would do, as he said. And in the criminal profession, however big the makings, there is very rarely anything like thrift. For a man who at any time might find himself doing five years, it was something to know that those left outside were in no danger of the workhouse, for even crooks have human instincts at times. That's all right, Mr. Foil, said Freddie. What you say goes. Who will I ask for if you're not at your office? You can talk to Mr. Green. Righto! Freddie swung out into the dusk whistling, for he had an assignment with his stalls outside one of the big theatres. Foil waited a few moments to let him get clear, and himself stepped into the street. To the surprise and disgust of the rest of the mob, Freddie early relinquished the evening's expedition, although his deaf fingers had captured no more than a silver watch, hung deceptively on a gold chain which he had left hanging, a woman's purse containing fifteen chillings in silver, and a pocketbook inside which were half a dozen letters. It was a poor hand, and Mickey O' Brady, who was one of the stalls, frankly expressed his disgust. What's the use of chucking it at this time of night? It ain't nine o'clock yet. There's the lifts at the tube that we haven't worked for weeks. Struth, what did you want to fetch us out for at all, the stuff you've got going by drinks? Freddie's lower jaw just stout dangerously. He was a small man, but he had a hair-trigger temper. He always made a point to be unquestioned boss of his gang. Discipline had to be maintained at all costs. See here, Mickey, he said tensely. I've had enough to-night, and I'm going to give it a rest, so you'd better shut your face. I'm the man who's got the say, so here. You just bite on that. Mickey, an Irish cockney who had never been nearer island than a professional visit to the Isle of Man, clenched his fists with an oath. He was a recent ally, and had not fully learned his position in Freddie's scheme of things. In just two minutes he was sitting gasping on the pavement, trying to regain his wits after a tremendous punch in the solar plexus, while his fellow stall was explaining to a constable that it was all an accident, and Freddie had quietly melted away in the direction of the tube station. The pickpocket never strained his luck, wherein he differed from the lower-grade professors of his art. Uncense and superstition were both factors in his decision to suspend operations. He might as well spend his time, he decided, in trying to carry out Foyle's instructions. His intention took him to three public houses as far apart as Islington, Blackfriars, and Whitechapel. At the latter place, in an ornate saloon bristling with guilt and glittering with mirrors, he found the man he wanted. Leaning across the bar, exchanging sallies with a giggling barmaid, was a lean, sallow-complexioned man whose rusty reddish-brown hair was sufficient justification for his nickname. "'Hello, Ike,' said the newcomer, adjusting himself to a high stool. How's things?' "'Hello, Dutch. Thought you got stuck the other side of the town. What are you going to have?' Over the drinks they talked for a little on a variety of subjects, the weather, politics, trade, while the barmaid remained within hearing. Both were craftsmen in their particular line, and they spoke as equal-to-equal. Ike had made a specialty of getting check signatures for a little clique of clever forges, and had his own ways of getting rid of his confederate's ingenuity. As he above working sidelines, if they promised profit, and in that respect, at least, he resembled Dutch Fred. His abilities in many directions had been recognized by Harry Goldenberg. It was not till they had gone over to a little table in a remote corner that Dutch Fred broached Goldenberg's name in a tentative reference to the murder in Gravener Gardens. "'Funny thing you should speak about that,' commented Ike, glancing casually about to make certain that no one was within ear-shot. I hear that there's piles of stuff in that house, and there's only a butler and a man named Lomont, who was Grail's secretary, living there now, to look after things. It would be easy to do a bust there.' Fred's pulses jumped a little faster as he toyed with his glass. He knew something of Red Ike's methods, and felt certain that some proposal was coming. He could see the gratitude of Foil taking some tangible form if he were able to bring this off. He had no screw-balls. Even if Ike suspected treachery after the event, well, he could look after himself. "'I don't know,' he said, shaking his head doubtfully. It isn't like a lonely suburban street.' Ike grinned. "'I'm not a mug, am I? What do you say to walking in the front door, opening it with a key, and with the keys of the rest of the house in my sky? All I want is a straight man to keep Doggo.' "'Crimony, have you got the twirls,' he gasped. Where did you get them?' "'Never mind where they came from. I've got them. That's enough. More than that, I've got a layout of the house all marked out on paper, with every bit of stuff marked out where I taught to be. It's as easy as falling off a log.' "'Am I in it?' demanded Freddy. "'Why should I be telling you, if you wasn't? You keep Doggo outside, if you like.' More drinks were ordered, and Freddy came to business. What do I get?' Ike let his chin rest meditatively on his slim fingers. "'Let's see. I cut in for a third, and I shall do all the work. I'll give you a quarter of that third. You won't have anything to do except give me the office, if anything goes wrong.' "'Struth, Freddy was more hurt than indignant. You aren't going to doom me down like that. Who else is in it?' "'Never mind who else is in it. I give you first chance as a pal. You can take it or leave it.' "'Right, I'm on,' agreed Freddy.' CHAPTER XXV The compact between Heldon Foyle and Sir Ralph Fairfield had begun to bear fruit, for three days an advertisement had appeared in the personal column of the Daily Wire. The LRG communicate with RF, very anxious. Much thought had gone to the wording of the line. If Grell or any of his companions noticed it, Foyle felt certain that in some way or other an attempt would be made to get in touch with the baronet. He was fairly confident that the missing man needed money. He would probably not question how Fairfield knew that he was alive. If he rose to the bait there would be a catch of some sort. Whether Grell was the murderer or not he held the key to the heart of the mystery. The superintendent emphasised this in a talk with Fairfield. It's a fair ruse, we're pretty certain he's hiding somewhere in London, and it's a big field unless we've got a starting point. That's our trouble finding a starting point. In detective stories the hero always hits on it unearingly at once. There was one yarn in which the scratches on the back of a watch gave the clue to the temperament and history of its possessor. Now that watch might have been borrowed, or bought secondhand, or lost and restored at some time, and the marks made by any one but its owner. That kind of subtlety is all right in print, but in real life it would put you on a false track in 19 out of 20 cases. In 90 cases out of 100 the obvious solution is the right one. In an investigation there may be coincidences of circumstantial evidence pointing in the wrong direction. But when you get first one coincidence, then a second, a third, and a fourth you can be fairly sure you're on the right track. You don't add proof together, you multiply it. See here. He drew a piece of paper towards him, and rapidly scribbled upon it. One coincidence equals zero. Two coincidences equals two. Three coincidences equals six. Four coincidences equals twenty-four. Five coincidences equals one hundred and twenty. That's the kind of thing in terms of arithmetic. Now look at the parts in relation to each other. Grell leaves the club and gets you to lie about his absence. Coincidence number one. A man astonishingly like him is murdered in his study a short time afterwards. Coincidence number two. He is apparently dressed in Grell's clothes and has Grell's belongings in his pocket. Coincidence number three. Both Grell and his valet Ivan Abramovich disappear. Coincidence number four. Ivan is found with the pearl necklace on him. Coincidence number five. Grell writes you a note which I stole from you. Coincidence number six. You follow me? I could go on with other proofs. Grell must know who committed this murder, and if we get hold of him, we shall know. I see the point, confessed Fairfield. All the same I don't believe, even if he knows, as you say, that he had a hand in it. This may be the hundredth case you know, and there may be some satisfactory explanation of his actions. I quite agree. Even cumulative proof may be destroyed. I can guess what you are half thinking. You believe that I've fastened my suspicions on Grell, and that I'm determined to go through with it right or wrong. That's a common mistake people fall into in regard to police functions. In fact, it doesn't matter a bit to a police official whether he gets a conviction or not, unless of course he neglects an important piece of proof through gross carelessness. All he has to do is to solve a problem and to place his answer before a magistrate, and then a judge and jury to decide whether he's right or wrong. No one but a fool would attempt to bolster up a wrong answer. In this case, too, you must remember that there are fingerprints. They cannot lie. If we get the right man, Grell, or anyone else, there will be no question of doubt. Fairfield tapped a cigarette on the back of his left hand and rose. Well, even if you do draw Grell with that advertisement, I doubt if you'll get anything from him if he doesn't want to talk. I know the man, and he's hard to beat out of any decision that he makes up his mind to. As hard, he bowed smilingly to the detective. As you would be. Thank you. If it were a question of Grell against Foil, I might have to go under, but it isn't. Behind me is the CID, behind that the whole force, behind that the home secretary, and behind him the state, so you see the odds are on my side. A jerky buzz at the telephone behind the superintendent's desk interrupted any reply that Fairfield might have made. With a muttered good day, the baronet moved across the carpeted floor out of the room. As he closed the door, Foil put the receiver to his ear. Hello? Hello? Yes, this is Foil speaking. Oh, yes, I know. No, you'd better not tell me over the telephone. You can't come here, somebody who knows you might see you. Is it important? All right, you'd better come to Lyon's tea-place in the Strand, the one nearest Trafalgar Square. I'll get Mr. Green to go along and have a talk with you. Goodbye. Rubbing his hands together thoughtfully, the superintendent sent for Green. In a few moments the big figure of the Chief Inspector loomed in the doorway. Dutch Fred thinks he's got hold of something. Open Foil abruptly. I've told him to meet you at Lyon's in the Strand. I think he's all right, but don't let him have any money until you've tested his yarn. Very good, sir, said Green. I'll look into it. As he left, Foil bent over his desk, and with the concentration that was one of his distinguishing traits, busied himself in a series of reports on a coining raid in Kensington, sent up to him by those concerned for his perusal. He had a theory that the efficiency of the battalion of detectives under him was not lessened by making his men tell him exactly how they were performing their work, both verbally and in writing. You may have brains. You may have intuition. You may have courage, but you'll never make a good detective without system," he sometimes told young officers when they joined the staff of the CID. There were things, of course, that could not be put in writing, but Foil never invited his subordinates to act against the law. Such things have to be done at a man's own discretion without official sanction. It was less than an hour when the Chief Inspector returned, potentially grave. Well, demanded Foil. The real goods, said Green, who was obviously feeling pleased with himself. Your long shot has come off. They're falling short of money, for they've put red eye-cup to break into Grail's house and steal all the stuff in sight. Ike has asked Fred to give him a hand. A low whistle came from Foil's lips. Why hadn't he thought of this, discreetly done, with the help of a confederate, and apparently Grail had no lack of confederates, it would get over the money difficulty quite simply. Sit down, Green, let's hear all about it, he said, diving into his pocket for the inevitable cigar. It's all fixed up. Ike walks into the place with Grail's keys at eight o'clock to-night, while Freddy keeps watch outside. And someone keeps an eye on Freddy, if I am any judge. Go on, who put Ike up to it? He won't say. He's as tight as a drum about all that, according to Freddy. When we arrest him, we must get something out of him. I don't know, said Foil, slowly. Ike's a queer bird. Dutch Fred will need to look after himself if ever he knows who gave the game away. Well, now, let's fix up things. Is anyone keeping an eye on the place for Ike? Freddy's supposed to be there. And I guess that they've found out that Lomont and Wills will be out of the house tonight. We might find out for sure, Green, phone Lomont, but don't stop him if they've made arrangements. It would simplify matters if we could get one or two of our own men in the house. We don't do that, though. Why not, if Freddy's keeping watch? That's all right. It isn't Freddy I'm afraid of. There'll be someone else there. The people who put this game up are not going to trust a couple of crooks entirely. I think I'll take a stroll out that way myself, about seven o'clock. We'd better have the place surrounded. I'll send for a section map of that part. A clerk brought the map, and Foyle's fingers described a wide irregular circle, now and again halting at one spot where he wished a man to be placed. That ought to do, said the superintendent, when Green had finished taking a note of the various points. Pick out some good men, though I don't suppose they will have much to do. It's only a measure of precaution. You'd better be on hand yourself, about half past seven. If all goes well we shall get bigger game than Ike. CHAPTER 26 Within the invisible cordon that Foyle had drawn about Grail's house in Gravener Gardens, Dutch Fred Lloyded, his keen ferret eyes wandering alertly over Passersby, misgivings had assailed him during a vigil that had lasted several hours. It was all very well to be in with the police, but suppose their plans miscarried. Suppose Red Ike and his unknown friends got to know that the double cross was being put on them. Fred fingered a heavy knuckle duster in his pocket nervously. Man to man he was not afraid of Ike, but there were his friends. The tall straight figure of Helden Foyle, with coat collar turned high up, had passed him once without sign of recognition, and vanished in the enveloping shadow of the slight fog that confused the night. Even though the superintendent had apparently paid no heed, he was entirely alert, and he had not failed to observe Freddy. What he wanted was to see who else was in the street. He returned by a detour to a hotel in the Buckingham Palace Road, outside which a big motor-car was at rest, with a fairly complete mental picture of three people who might be possible spies among those he had passed. The thickening fog was both an advantage and a disadvantage to the detectives, an advantage because it would force any person watching on behalf of Grail and his associates to keep within a reasonable distance of the house, if Ike was not to be lost sight of, and a disadvantage because it would afford increased facilities for anyone to slip away. To Green, seated in the motor-car, Foyle commented on this fact. You'll have to have your breakdown rather closer to the house than we thought, he said. Give Ike a good chance inside. You've got the duplicate key all right? That's safe enough, answered Green, tapping his pocket. If I don't see you after we've bagged him, I'd better charge him with house-breaking, I suppose. Certainly. Now get along. It's a quarter to eight. The car moved silently forward and took the corner of Gravener Gardens. Thirty paces beyond the spot where Dutch Freddie was lighting a cigarette, it came to a stop, while the chauffeur, dropping to the ground, rummaged fiercely with the interior. Green leaned back in the shadow, his eyes fixed on the steps leading to Grail's house. There was a sufficient air of plausibility about the whole accident to impress anyone but the most suspicious. Heldon Foyle had entered the hotel, for he did not care to run the risk of frightening his quarry by showing himself again until it was necessary, but he kept a vigilant eye on the clock. Promptly as the hands touched ten minutes past eight, he made his way once more to the corner of Gravener Gardens. A labourer with corduroy trousers tied about the knee, and a grimy, spotted blue handkerchief about his neck, approached him with unlit pipe and a request for a match. Red Eich's gone along, he said, as Foyle supplied him. Nobody else has been hanging round except Freddie, the constable on the beat passed along just after Eich. The match was dropped in the gutter, and the superintendent, his face set grimly, moved slowly on. The labourer crossed to the other side of the road and followed. Foyle was quite near the house when Green walked up, accompanied by his chauffeur, and made quickly up the steps. Shadowy in the fog, the superintendent could see the dim outline of a constable's uniform. The man was peering anxiously at the doorway through which Green had gone. "'Well, my man,' said Foyle sharply, "'are you on duty here? Who are those people who have just gone in there?' The policeman gave a barely perceptible start and then took a pace forward. "'I believe they have no right there. I must go and see,' he said, but was brought up with a jerk as Foyle's hand clutched his wrist. The labourer who had wanted a light was coming across the road at a run, and, though a little puzzled, had seized the constable's other hand. "'No, you don't,' said Foyle, peremptorily. "'When you masquerade as a policeman again, my friend, make sure you have a letter of the right division on your collar. This district is B, not M. I am a police officer, and I shall arrest you on a charge of being concerned in an attempt at house-breaking. You'd better not make a fuss. Come on, Smithers, let's get him into the car.' The prisoner made no resistance. He seemed dazed. Once in the car the detective took the precaution to handcuff him to his subordinate, right wrist to the officer's left wrist, for he did not know how long the wait for green might be, and it seemed wisest not to run risks. Detectives rarely handcuff their prisoners unless travelling. It is conspicuous and unnecessary. "'Now we're more comfortable,' said Foyle, sinking into the cushions of the car. "'If you want to give any explanation before I formally charge you, you may, and you don't forget that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. Is it an offence to go to a fancy dress-ball in a police officer's uniform?' asked the prisoner, because if it is, I shall plead guilty. "'You can make that defence if you like. If you think it will be believed,' retorted Foyle, "'it will be better for everyone if you tell the truth, though.' The man lapsed into a surly, sullen silence, and the superintendent could feel that he was glaring at him in the darkness of the closed car. The other detective looked through the window. "'Here comes Mr. Green, sir.' Arm in arm, and in amicable converse with Ike, the chief detective inspector was approaching the car, with the chauffeur on the other side. Ike, it appeared, had been run to earth in the dining-room, and had surrendered at discretion. He had all the philosophy of the habitual thief, who knows when the game is up. He grinned a little when he saw the handcuffed policeman in the car. "'Why, it's you, Mr. Smith. Didn't you think I could be trusted for fair dues over the stuff inside? You've fallen into it this time, and no blooming error. Where's Fred?' "'Fred who?' queried Foyle. "'Is there someone else in this job?' "'But Red Ike was too old a bird to be deceived. Instinct as well as reason told him that he had been betrayed, and the absence of Fred but lent fuel to his suspicions. "'Ah, don't come at Mr. Foyle,' he said disgustedly, and added a picturesque flow of language, elaborating the steps he would take to get even with Dutch Fred when he had the opportunity. Not one of the detectives interrupted him, the more he talked the better, for he might drop something of value. Not until they drew up at the police station did his eloquence desert him. The superintendent descended first, and gave a few instructions, while the soy de son constable was taken to the cells. Ike found himself escorted upstairs into the CID office, only Heldon Foyle and Green remained with him. "'Sit down and make yourself comfortable,' said the superintendent cheerfully. "'We want to have a little talk with you, Ike. Would you like a drink? Here, have a cigar.'" Red Ike's swift wits were on the alert. Never before had he known this kind of hospitality to be tended in a police station to a man arrested red-handed, and although suspicious he was nevertheless flattered. All criminals, whether at the top or bottom of their profession, are beset by vanity. A little out of your usual line this went on Foyle watching his man intently, as neat a job as ever was spoiled by accident. Now you know, as well as I do, that we can't force you to talk, but it'll help us a bit if you tell us who you got those keys from, for instance. The office was small and plainly furnished, and Ike stared into the fire as he sipped his whiskey, with placid face, that the interview was to be the English equivalent of the third degree he knew not. There would be no bullying, only coaxing. Foyle was in a position where consummate tact was needed if he was to extract anything from the prisoner. He dared neither threaten nor promise. However helpful Ike might be, he would still have to submit the issue of guilt and punishment to a judge and jury. Ike, unlike Dutch Fred, had no relations, and if he had it was doubtful if any promise of consideration for them would move him. It's no good, Mr. Foyle, said Ike. The only man that was in this with me was Dutch Fred. You'd better go and get him, because I shall tell all about it in court. He gave me the keys. Don't be a fool, Ike, interposed green. The prisoner glanced from one to the other with cunning, twinkling eyes. He was too wary to say anything that may be used as evidence. I guessed that it isn't bursting into the place that's put you two to work, he said. You want to know something? If I could help you, I suppose you'd drop this case? Heldon Foyle shook his head resolutely. You know we can't do that in a case of felony. Mr. Green will put in a good word for you at the trial. That's the farthest we can go to. Ike put down his empty glass. He believed he held the whip hand, that he had much to gain, and nothing to lose by holding out for better terms. It was a false impression, though a natural one. Heldon Foyle had neither the power nor the inclination to drive a bargain that would permit Ike to go unscathed to renew his depredations on society. It's no good, Governor, said Ike, if you want me to talk, I'll do it, if you'll let me go. Right. Foyle rose abruptly. We'll let it go at that, Ike. You please yourself, of course. Mr. Green, you'd better charge him now. He had passed out of the door, and his footsteps were dying away when Ike awoke to the fact that his attempt at bluff had failed. He raised his voice. Hi, Mr. Foyle, don't go yet. I'll cough up what I know. Come back. CHAPTER 27 A grim smile flickered under Chief Inspector Green's grey moustache as Heldon Foyle stepped briskly back into the room and closed the door. Ike met a stare of the superintendent's cold blue eyes squarely. You've got the bulge on me this time, Governor," he admitted ruefully. I give you best. You're welcome to all I know, though that isn't much. Now that he was near attaining his end, Foyle had to steer a delicate course. The law very rightly insists that there shall be neither threat nor promise held out to any person who is accused of a crime. From the moment a police officer has made up his mind to arrest a man, he must not directly or indirectly induce a person to say anything that might prove his guilt. And a warning of the possible consequences is insisted upon even when a statement is volunteered. Otherwise, admissions or evidence so obtained are ignored, and there is trouble for the police officer who obtained them. That is one of the reasons why detective work in England demands perhaps nicer skill than in most other countries. Green had pulled a fountain pen from his pocket and adjusted a couple of sheets of official full-scap. Foyle remained standing. Don't let's have any misunderstanding, he said. We're not making any promises, except that the court will know you helped us in another case. If you choose to keep quiet, we can't do a thing to you. I know all about that, said Ike, with a little shrug of his shoulders. You know I wouldn't squeal in an ordinary job. I'm no Dutch Freddy to give my pals away. I don't owe the chap anything you put me up to this. What do you want first? Tell us all about it your own way. Where did you get the keys of the house? Off that chap you raked in along of me. I was sitting in a little game of pharaoh at a joint in the commercial road about a week ago, when this tough pulls me out and puts it up to me. I didn't much like it, but the chink who runs the show told me he was straight and he offered me half. You told Freddy you were only getting a third into posed green. Did I? Ike grinned cunningly. It must have been a slip of the tongue. Anyway, I said I'd chip in for half or nothing. He powowed a bit, but at last he gave in. Funny thing about it was, he wouldn't hear of keeping an eye open on the day we brought the job off. Said I must get a pal. Yet here he turns up as large as life all the time. The prisoner had hit on a point which had puzzled foil for a time, but light had already flashed upon him. In the ordinary course of things a robbery aggraved in a garden by two known criminal characters would not of necessity be associated with the murder. The third man was taking no chances of being identified as an associate. Anyway, I took the job on, and he handed me over the twels and the layout of the house. He didn't tell me who was behind him, and I didn't ask too many questions. He called himself Mr. Smith, and we met once or twice at the Blank. He named a public house in Lehman Street, White Chapel. That's where I was to have met him tonight with the stuff. Now you know all I know." "'Not quite,' said foil quietly. "'What's the address of this gambling joint where you first met him?' Ike shook his head. "'Oh, play the game, Governor. You aren't going to have that raided after what I've done for you.' "'We'll see,' evaded foil. "'Where is it?' Reluctantly Ike gave the address. Green held out pen to him and pointed to the bottom of the fullskep. Read that through and sign it if it's all right." The man appended a dashing signature, and with a cheerful, good-night, Mr. Foil, was ushered by a chief detective inspector down to the charge room. Heldon Foil rested his elbows on the table and remained in deep thought immobile as a statue. He roused himself with a start as Green returned. "'Both charged,' said the other, leconically. The other chap refuses to give any account of himself, refuses even to give a name. Seems to be a Yankee. I had his fingerprints taken. There was nothing on him to identify him." "'Yankee, eh?' repeated Foil. So is Grell. There won't be anyone in the fingerprint department at this time of night. We'll go along and have a search by ourselves, I think. If we've not got him there, Pinkerton of the U.S. National Detective Agency is staying at the Cecil. We'll get him to have a look over our man and say whether he recognises him." "'Very good, sir. There's one other thing. When I searched this man, I found this. I don't know if you can make anything out of it. I can't.'" He handed across an envelope already torn open, addressed to the advertisement department, The Daily Wire. Within were two plain sheets of note paper and a postal order. When one was written, Dear Sir, please insert the enclosed adverts in the personal column of your next issue, John Jones. On the other were two advertisements. R.F. You are closely watched. Don't forget 2315. Don't forget 2315. G. E. Twenty-seven pounds. Fourteen. Five. Tomorrow. B." Very curious, commented Foil. Copy them out carefully and have them sent to the paper. They can't do any harm. Now let's get along. The fog hung heavy over a muffled world as they walked down Victoria Street. Green, whose wits were a trifle less supple than those of his chief when imagination was required, put a question. Foil answered absently. The mysterious advertisements were not altogether mysterious to him. He recalled the cipher that had been found at Grave Street and decided that there was at least room for hope in that direction. Besides there was at least one man now in custody who knew something of the mystery, and even if he kept his lips locked indefinitely, there was a probable chance of a new line of inquiry opening when his identity was discovered. And even if fingerprints and Pinkerton failed to resolve that, there was still the resource of the newspapers. With a photograph scattered far and wide, the odds were in favour of someone recognising its subject. As Foil switched on the lights in the fingerprint department, Green sat down at a table, and with the aid of a magnifying glass carefully scrutinised the prints which he carried on a sheet of paper. Ranged on one side of the room were high filing cabinets divided into pigeon holes numbered from one to one thousand and twenty-four. In them were contained hundreds of thousands of fingerprints of those known to be criminals. It was for the detectives to find if among them were any identical with those of their prisoner. The whole science of fingerprints for police purposes resolves itself into the problem of classification. It would be an impossible task to compare myriads of records each time. The system employed was absurdly simple to put into execution. In five minutes Green had the fingerprints of the two hands classified into loops and walls, and had made a rough note. WLWLLLWLWLW. That done the remainder was purely a question of arithmetic. Each wall was given an arbitrary number according to its position. A wall occurring in the first pair counts sixteen in the second, the third four, the fourth two, and the fifth one. Thus Green's efforts became sixteen four twenty equals eight four one thirteen. The figure one was added to both numerator and denominator, and Green at once went to the fourteenth pigeonhole in a row of the filing cabinet numbered twenty-one, there if anywhere he would find the record that he sought, for a while he was busy carefully looking through the collection. Here it is he said at last and read, Charles J. Condit, American, number nine seven eight one, habitual convicts registry. Put him back, said Foyle, we'll find his record in the registry. The two detectives, uncertain as to where the regular staff kept the files of the number they wanted, were some little time in searching. It was Foyle who at last reached it from a top shelf, and ran his eye over it from the photograph pasted in the top left hand corner to the meager details given below. This is our man right enough, he said, American fingerprints and photographs supplied by the New York people when he took a trip to this country five years ago, never convicted here, it's as little about him, we'll have to cable over to learn what they know. That gives us a chance for a remarked Green, exactly, and in the meantime he may tell us something, a prisoner gets plenty of time to reflection when he's on remand. CHAPTER XXVIII. Five minutes after Big Ben had struck ten o'clock, Weldon Foyle walked into his office to find Seral Fairfield striding up and down and glancing impatiently at the clock. He made no direct answer to the detective's salutation, but plunged at once into the object of his visit. Have you seen the wire this morning, he asked abruptly. Foyle seated himself at his desk, imperturbable and unmoved. No, he answered, but I know of the advertisement that brought you here. As a matter of fact, I sent it to the paper. I should have called on you if you hadn't come. Grail meant it for you right enough. The significance of the detective's admission that he knew of the advertisement did not immediately strike Fairfield. He unfolded a copy of the Daily Wire. What do you make of the infernal thing, he demanded? It's absolute Greek to me." With a letter selected from the pile of correspondence on his desk, and opened in his hand, Weldon Foyle swung round and faced his questioner. It's simply a sighting shot, Seral, he remarked quietly. Grail credits you with intelligence enough to remember that number later. Have you any knowledge of ciphers? I have an elementary idea that to unravel them you work from the most frequently recurring letter, E, isn't it? That's right, said Foyle, but there are other ciphers where that system won't work. Mind you, I don't pose as an expert. If I had a cipher to unravel, I should go to a man who had specialized in them, exactly as I should go to a doctor on a medical question. Still, the advertisement today isn't a cipher. It means exactly what it says. Thank you, said Fairfield Grailie. I am now as wise as when I started. Sorry, murmured Foyle swavly, you'll be wiser presently. The thing isn't complete yet. If you'll excuse me a few minutes, I'll just run through my letters, and then, if you don't mind taking a little walk, we'll go and see Lady Eileen Meredith. Some formal reply rose to Fairfield's lips, he never knew what. The last time he had seen Eileen was fixed in his memory. Then she had practically denounced him as a murderer. Since then she had learnt that every shadow of suspicion had been cleared away from him. How would she receive him if he visited her unexpectedly with Foyle? Why did Foyle wish him to go? Perhaps after all there was nothing in it. He told himself fiercely that there was no reason why the meeting should embarrass him. Some day, sooner or later, they would have to meet. Why not now? He was hungry for a sight of her, and yet he was as nervous as a child at the thought of going to her. The slamming of a drawer and the soft click of a key in the lock told that Foyle had finished. He picked up a copy of the Daily Wire and his hat and gloves. Now, Sir Ralph, he said briskly, and together they descended the narrow flight of stone steps, which leads to one of Scotland Yard's back doors. The detective was apparently in a talkative mood, and Fairfield got no chance to ask the questions that were filling his mind. Despite of himself he became interested in the flow of anecdotes which came from his companion's lips. There were few corners of the world, civilized or uncivilized, where the superintendent had not been in the course of his career. He had the gift of dramatic and humorous storytelling. He spoke of adventures in Buenos Aires. In South Africa, Russia, the United States, and a dozen other countries, of knife thrusts and revolver shots, of sandbagging and bludgeoning, without any suspicion of haunting himself. The baronet made some comment. No, said Foyle, take it all round, a detective's life is more monotonous than exciting. It's taken me thirty years to collect the experiences I'm telling you about. Things always happen unexpectedly. Some of my narrowest squeaks have taken place in England in the West End. Why, I was nearly shot in one of the best hotels by an officer sent over from the United States to take charge of a man I had arrested. He was the sheriff of some small town, and had a bit of a reputation as a gunman, and had come over with the district attorney to escort the chap back. They did themselves well, while they were here waiting to catch a boat back. One morning I strolled into the hotel, and who should run into me but the attorney with a face the colour of white paper? That you chief, he gasps. For God's sake, don't go upstairs. He's on the landing, blazing drunk, and with his gun out. He's a dead shot. Well, I could see that a Wild West sheriff was out of place in a decent hotel, so up I went. He had me covered like a flash, and I yelled out to him not to shoot. Hello, chief, he says. That's all right. Come right up. I won't do a thing. Just wait till I've plugged that kerr of an attorney, and we'll go and have a drink. By this time I was up level with him. I didn't risk trying to get the revolver from him, for he was a quick shot, so I pushed my arm through his. I haven't got much time, Sheriff, says I. Let's go and have a drink first, and you settle up with him afterwards. That's a bet, he says, and I led him down to the bar. I persuaded him to try a new drink of my own invention, his chief component was soda water, and followed it up with strong hot coffee. Meanwhile, I managed to get the gun away on the pretext of admiring it. He was reluctant at first, telling me I could have it for keeps after he had finished that kerr of an attorney. But I got it, and he was fairly sober by the time I left him. Then there was a sequel. I had warned the sheriff and the attorney, who had made up their differences, that the man they had got was a slippery customer to handle. However, they got him in the boat all right. When they got to New York I had a cable from the captain, a friend of mine. She said the prisoner had not only cleared off the ship by himself, but had carried away the hand baggage of his escort. This reminiscence had brought them to Barkley Square. Fairfield felt his heart thumping quickly, although his face was impassive as the door was opened in response to Foil's ring. She might be out, she might refuse to see them. Neither of the two alternatives happened. Within three minutes Eileen had descended to them in the drawing-room. She stopped, a graceful figure in black, by the doorway, and gave a barely perceptible start as her eyes rested on the baronet. She bowed coldly. I did not know you were here, Sir Ralph. I understood Mr. Foil wished to see me. She was frigid and self-possessed. He had half expected some expression of apology for the wrong she had done him, but she entirely ignored that. But that Fairfield had himself well in hand, he would have openly resented the snub inflicted on him. It was Foil who answered. I brought Sir Ralph here. I thought his presence might be necessary. She moved across the room and sank on a couch with a petulant frown. Well, I suppose you have some disagreeable business to transact. Let us get it over. The superintendent knew that he was dealing with a woman entirely on her guard. Her steady gray eyes were fixed on him closely, as though she could read his thoughts. He thought he could detect a slight twitching of the slender hands that rested idly on her lap. I want to know, he said slowly, the meaning of the advertisement addressed to you by Robert Grale in this morning's Daily Wire. He could have sworn that his shot had hit, that she flinched a little as he spoke, but if so she showed no further sign. He read her face was all astonishment, as she replied. I don't quite understand. What advertisement? I know nothing about Mr. Grale since he left Grovener Gardens. Will you explain? Deliberately, the superintendent took from his breast pocket a copy of the Daily Wire, folded back at the personal column, and read, E, twenty-seven pounds, fourteen, five, tomorrow, be. That, he said, is addressed to you. It is hardly worthwhile denying knowledge of it. It was found last night on a man arrested for attempted house-breaking at Mr. Grale's house. I ordered that it be sent to the paper, together with another intended for the eye of Sir Ralph Fairfield. Her interest was plainly awakened. Then the other was for you, she cried, turning to Fairfield. I wondered if— She paused with the realisation that she had admitted what she had a moment before denied. Foyle's foot pressed heavily on the toe of the baronet to warn him not to speak. Yes, it was for Sir Ralph, he said. That is why I brought him here. It is you, though, who hold the key to this mystery. We know that you would have sent your jewels to Grale, that you are in communication with his friends. You are young, Lady Eileen, and don't realise that you are playing with fire. Your silence can do your lover no good. It may do him and yourself harm. You have been visited by the Princess Petrovska, an adventurous not fit to touch the hem of your skirt. You are already involved. Take the advice of a man old enough to be your father and confide in us. She had risen, and her slim-formed towered over the seated detective. She seemed about to resent his words, but suddenly burst into a ripple of laughter. You would be offensive if you were not amusing Mr. Foil. Don't you think my help would be a little superfluous since you know so much?" She asked with a quietness that robbed the remark of some of its bitterness. I think you are better go now. I am sorry, said Foil. You may regret that you did not take my advice. She herself held the door open for them to pass out. To the surprise of Fairfield she held out her hand to him while ignoring the detective. Come back alone as soon as you can, she whispered. I want to speak to you." Foil had apparently neither he did nor heard, yet as soon as they were out of eye-shot of the house he turned to Fairfield. She asked you to go back. Hey! The baronet was startled. Yes, how did you know? Did you overhear her? No, but I hoped she would when I took you there. That was the whole reason of our visit. I didn't expect to get her to say or admit anything. Fairfield came to an abrupt halt, and gripped his companion by the arm. You intend it—for what reason? How could you know? Absolute common sense, my dear sir. That's all. Absolute common sense. If you are a chess player you know that the man who can foretell what move his opponent is going to make usually wins. Here, let's find a quiet Piccadilly tea-shop, and I'll tell you all about it. There is no place which one may find more convenient for a quiet conversation than the London tea-shop before twelve in the morning. Over a cup of coffee in the deserted smoking-room, Foil spoke to the point. I did not tell you why I took you to see Lady Eileen, because I was afraid you might refuse. She has been antagonistic to you, hitherto. The fact that Grel advertised you in somewhat the same manner as herself has given her the idea that, after all, you too might be trying to shield him. Naturally, she wants to be certain in order that you may join forces. That's why I prevented you saying anything. Now, if you go back to her, you may tell her that I practically forced you to accompany me. You can win her confidence, and through her we may get on the right track. An angry flush mounted to Fairfield's temples. In short, he said curtly, you want me to act as a spy on an unsuspecting girl. No thanks, that's not in our bargain. He was genuinely angry at the proposal. The superintendent saw that he had been too blunt, and made haste to repair his error. Don't be in a hurry, he protested. The girl, as I told her, is beginning to be mixed up in a dangerous business. This is the only way to extricate her. You may help her, and Grel, and us, by doing, as I ask. Consider it coolly, and you will see it is the best thing to do. Sir Ralph sat down his cup, and fingered his watch-team. Foil signalled the waitress, paid the bill, lit his cigar, and waited. I'll have to think it over, said Fairfield thoughtfully. Give me an hour or two. But you are, agreed the detective heartily, and they made their way out into the street. CHAPTER XXIX It was with mixed feelings that Fairfield yielded at last to Foil's arguments, and returned to see Eileen Meredith. To his consent he had attached the condition that he was to be allowed to use his own judgment as to how much of the interview he should communicate to the detective, and with this Foil had to be content. The baronet found the girl waiting for him, her face alight with eagerness. She was in her own boudoir, luxuriously ensconced in a big arm-chair, and she smiled brightly at him, such a smile as he had not seen since before the murder. He obeyed her invitation to sit down. You wanted to see me alone, he said? She nodded. Yes, I want to know if we are allies or enemies. I know I have treated you abominably, but I was driven half mad by the thought that Bob was dead. Now we are working together, are we not? He made a little gesture with his hands, helplessly as one at a loss. Insofar as we both wish to get Grell out of his difficulty, and I wish I knew what that was, yes, he replied. I don't believe him to be a murderer, but why does he remain in hiding? He is not the sort of man to do foolish things, and that is foolish on the face of it. He has some strong reason for being out of the way. Can you explain? She pulled her chair closer to him, and laid one slim hand on his. I cannot explain, I can only trust. He looked to us to help him. I know that he wants money, for he sent a friend to tell me. I had none, but I gave her my jewels. Detectives were watching her, and they, with the connivance of my father, took them from her. Now you, his most intimate friend, must help him. He has given you the key to the cipher, which will appear, and then I suppose he will tell you how to get it to him. She had apparently taken it for granted that the baronet was with her, in whole soul devotion to her lover. His fingers beat a tattoo on his knee. So that advertisement was the key to a cipher. Do you know when I shall get a message? I shall get one, to-morrow. You? Who knows? Then you can tell me how to read it. She hesitated a moment, finger on chin. Then, animated by a quick resolve, she moved to a little inlaid desk and unlocked a drawer. She turned with a piece of paper in her hand. What was the number mentioned in your advertisement? 2315. For a little, the only sound in the room was the scratching of pencil on paper. At last she finished and handed the result to him. He wrinkled his brows as he studied it. This is the key 2315, 23152, 315, VKJX, KV, UMG, NFD. The bottom line is the top one turned into cipher, she explained. The middle line is the key number. In the first word you take the second letter from T, the third from H, the first from I, and so on. It is a cipher that cannot be unraveled without the key number. H becomes K once and M once. I see the simplicity of it at once dawned on him. That was what Foil meant when he said that some ciphers could not be solved by the recurring E, he said unthinkingly. She had risen and flung away from him in quick revulsion. One glance at her face told him what he had done. You spy! There was stinging scorn in her tone. You have talked it over with Foil, and that man knows all. You are here to worm out what I know in order to betray your friend. Oh, don't trouble to lie, as he would have spoken. I can see your object, and I nearly fell into the trap. The man was not without dignity, as he stood a little white, but steady. You may call me what you like, he said in a low voice. Spy if you will. Believe me or not, I have acted for the best, for you and for Growl. You once called me a murderer, with what justification you now know. Are you so ready to judge hastily again? If he had hoped to move her from her gust of passion, he quickly learned his mistake. Her lips curled in contempt, and drawing her skirts aside as she passed him as though a touch might contaminate her, she swept the doorway. For one instant she stood posed. You call yourself a spy, it is a good name. For a police spy there is no room in this house. With that she was gone. The man had flushed under the biting contempt in her voice and words, and now stood for a little with hands tightly clenched, gazing after her. She felt that, from her point of view, at least, there was some truth in her words. He was, whatever his motives, a police spy, and yet he was but concerned to clear up the horrible tangle in which his friend and the girl had become involved. He did not know that he was watched from behind the curtains as he walked blindly into the street. Eileen, with lips firmly set and face tense, was concealed behind the curtains. No sooner had he gone than she hurriedly dressed herself and ordered an electric browam. She had come to believe that her lover's safety depended on her actions that day. The girl knew the secret of the cipher, and Grel's advertisement told her that he intended communicating something to her by that method the next day. At all costs she must prevent him betraying himself. Only one course occurred to her. She must go to the office of the Daily Wire and prevent his advertisement from appearing. How she was to do it she had not the slightest idea. That she left for later reflection. The car rolled smoothly towards Fleet Street, but no inspiration came to her. She alighted at the advertisement office with its plate glass and gilded letters, and was attended by an obsequious clerk. Outwardly calm but with her heart beating quickly beneath her furs, she put her inquiry to a sleek-haired clerk. He was polite but firm. It was quite possible that such an advertisement, as she mentioned, had been sent for insertion the following day, and again it might not. In any case he was forbidden to give any information. It would be quite out of the question to stop any advertisement unless she held the receipt. But if the advertisement has not already been given in, can you give a note to whoever brings it, she asked, in a flash of inspiration? Yes, that could be done. She tore off her glove, and with slim nervous fingers wrote hurriedly. The sleek clerk supplied her with an envelope, and as she placed her message in it and handed it to him, she felt it was a forlorn hope. There was only one other way about whitting the detectives. Should Grel give any address in his message, she must reach him early in the morning before the police could act. A couple of questions elicited the fact that the paper would be on sale by four the next morning. That would mean another journey to Fleet Street, for the ordinary news-agents shop would not be open at that time. The brown turned about, and began the homeward journey. A respectably dressed working-man, who had apparently been absorbed in a page of advertisements of situations vacant displayed on a slab in the window, slouched into the office, and a man bare-headed and wearing a frock-coat moved briskly forward, apparently to attend to him, yet it was more than coincidence that they met at a deserted end of the counter. That was Lady Eileen Meredith, said the workman, in a quick low voice. What did she want? She's guessed that we know the cipher retorted the other. She gave a letter to be handed over to whoever brings the advertisement. Here is what she says. He pulled the letter which Eileen had written five minutes before from its envelope. The police know the cipher. Be very cautious. R. F. is acting with them. I'll telephone to Mr. Foyle at once. You had better stay outside. The second man went back to the pavement, and resumed his study of the advertisement board, but a close observer might have seen that his eyes wandered past it an hour and again to the persons inside the office. Half an hour went by. Then the frock-coated man inside took a silk hat from a peg and placed it on his head. Simultaneously a woman went out. A dozen paces behind her went the workman, and a dozen paces behind him the frock-coated man. Helden Foyle had selected his subordinates well for their work. Acting on the policy of leaving nothing to chance, he had taken a hint from the advertisement addressed to Eileen, and had the office watched from the time it opened. It was simple to get the manager's permission to place one man within, and to get him to direct the clerks to pass through his hands all cipher advertisements for the personal column. If the advertisement came through the post, their time would be thrown away. If it was delivered by hand, there was a chance of learning whence it had been dispatched. The intervention of Lady Eileen was an accident that could not have been foreseen. In that matter, luck had played into Foyle's hands. CHAPTER XXXIII. Between Barclay Square and Scotland Yard, Fairfield consumed ten cigarettes in sharp jerky puffs, yet he was scarcely conscious of lighting one. Indeed, as he climbed the wide flight of steps at the main entrance, it seemed as though no palpable interval of time had elapsed since he had been practically turned out of her father's house by Eileen Meredith. Heldon Foyle put away the bundle of documents that contained the history of the case as the baronet was announced, and waved his visitor to a chair. Well, he asked. Fairfield shrugged his shoulders. A nice mess you've got me into, he complained. Why didn't you tell me you knew the secret of the cipher? The detective's face was full of ingenuous surprises, he answered. Didn't I? I thought I made it perfectly clear to you. I am sorry that you misunderstood. I should have made it plainer. What has gone wrong? Sir Ralph made an impatient gesture. Or what's the use of talking nonsense? You did not tell me that you knew the cipher, and as a consequence Lady Eileen now knows that you know. The superintendent gave no indication of the chagrin with which the news filled him. His features were perfectly expressionless. A part of his plans had failed from excess of caution. He did not need Fairfield to tell him what had happened. He could make a fairly accurate guess as to the manner in which he had been unwittingly betrayed. His thoughts turned at once to the question of what the girl would do. If he had judged her right she would try to warn Grel. Either she knew his address or not, but it was unlikely that she did as they were communicating in cipher. The obvious thing for her to do was to try to stop the advertisement. There was, however, little he could do. He had men on duty in Barkley Square and in Fleet Street. He would soon hear of any new developments. That's a pity, he said reflectively. It may mean a rearrangement of our plans. And believe me, Sir Ralph, I badly regret now that I did not go into fuller details with you. What happened? Stumblingly, Sir Ralph recapitulated the scene at Barkley Square, giving even the epithets by which the girl had addressed him. Foyle tapped lightly on his desk with the end of a pen-holder. The event had been as he thought. He looked Sir Ralph straight in the eye. She told you that you were a spy, that I had used you as a tool, he said sharply. You have been hurt by her words. I don't want you to feel that you are anything but a free agent or to do anything that you consider dishonorable. But I must know whether you are still willing to act with us or whether you wish to stand aside. Fairfield drew the stump of cigarette viciously into the fire. I am acting with you, of course, he answered sullenly, though I wish you to ask for my help only when it is absolutely necessary. What I complain of is that I have not been frankly treated and that I have been placed in an invidious position with Lady Eileen. You must remember that I have feelings and that it is not pleasant to be told one is acting as a spy, especially by—by an old friend. You know, Mr. Foyle, that I have only been wishful to serve those I have known. There was something pathetic in his endeavour to justify his actions to himself. Foyle murmured as sympathetic, I understand, yes, yes, I know, and then became thoughtful. After all, he said at last, this does not make us so very badly off. You are openly on our side now, Sir Ralph, so there can be no fear of your again being accused of acting in an underhand manner. There is nothing more to be done at the moment. I will keep you posted as to any steps we are taking. Very well. Good morning, Mr. Foyle. The baronet was gone. The superintendent resumed his perusal of documents. He felt some little compunction at what had happened, yet it was his business to clear up the mystery and to use what instruments came to his hand so long as the law was not violated. There is a code of etiquette in detective work in which the first and most important rule is, take advantage of every chance of bringing a criminal to justice. In using Fairfield as an instrument, Foyle was merely following that code. In a little, Foyle had finished and sent for Green. The Chief Inspector came with a report. A woman brought the advertisement to Fleet Street, Sir. He said, Blake has just telephoned up that he and Lambert are keeping her under observation. He phoned earlier that Lady Eileen Meredith had been there. Yes, I suppose so. What does the advertisement say? He couldn't tell me on the phone. He had to hurry away to look after the woman. It is being sent up by taxicab. That's good. By the way, Green, keep half a dozen men handy, and be about yourself. Very good, Sir. Is there anything on? I don't quite know. We may have to go out in a hurry. I'll tell you after we have deciphered the advertisement. It was with an eagerness sternly suppressed that Helden Foyle took from a messenger the note which he knew contained Grail's advertisement, though outwardly he was the least emotional of men. He always worked at high tension in the investigation of a case. No astronomer could discover a new comet, no scientist a new element, with greater delight than that which animated the square-faced detective while he was working on a case. He drew out the sheet of paper gingerly between his fingernails and tested it with graphite. Eight or nine fingerprints, some blurred, some plain, appeared black against the white surface, and he gave an ejaculation of annoyance. The fools! I warned them to handle it carefully, now they've been a-mixed the whole lot up. He blew down one of the half-dozen speaking-tubes hanging at the side of his desk, and gave a curt order. When green appeared he was engrossed in copying the advertisement onto a writing-pad. He laid down his pen after a while. Bet you, green, send this up to Grant and ask him to have it photographed. See if he can pick out any of the prints as being in the records or bearing on the case. Somebody's been pouring this all over, and the prints are probably spoiled. It's been printed out, too, so there isn't much chance of identifying the writing. Anyhow, we'll have a look more closely at it when the fingerprint people have done. He bent once more to his desk with the copy of the cipher. He knew the key, and it was not necessary to resort to an expert. By the time the chief inspector came back he had a neatly copied translation on his pad. Listen to this green, he said. E.M. I'm now safe on board a barge moored below Tower Bridge, where no one will think of looking for me. Have good friends, but little money owing to action of police. Trust, little girl, you still believe in my innocence, though things seem against me. There are reasons why I should not be questioned. Shall try to embark before the mast in some outwardbound vessel. Crews will not be scrutinized so sharply as passengers. There are those who will let you know my movements. Fear the police may tamper with your correspondence, but later on when hue and cry has died down will let you know all. The two detectives looked at each other. A barge below Tower Bridge repeated green with something like admiration. That was a good shot. He might have stayed there till doomsday without our hitting on him or anyone taking any notice of him. I don't know, said Foyle. A newcomer on the river would attract attention. These watermen know each other. There's only one way that I can see in which he would avoid being talked about. He is a watchman. You're right, sir, agreed the other emphatically. This is a matter where Rington of the Thames Division will be able to help us. Hope we can find him at Wapping. Shall I ring through? There's no hurry for a minute or two, said Foyle. Let's get the hang of the thing right. There's probably some hundreds of barges below Tower Bridge. It will be as well to keep a close eye on the docks and shipping offices. You see, he asserts his innocence. Hmm! commented Green, with an intonation that meant much. He says, too, that there are reasons why he shouldn't be questioned. Well, we shall see. There had better be an all-station message about the docks. Send two or three men down to Tilbury to watch outgoing boats there. We shan't need any other men from here. Rington's staff know the river, and we'll get on best with them. I don't want to leave here until Blake lets us know more about the woman who left the advertisement. That gives us another possible clue. It was some time before Rington, the divisional detective inspector at the head of the detective staff of the Thames division, could be found, for like other branches of the CID, he and his men did their work systematically, and usually left their office at nine o'clock, only to return at six. At length, however, he was found at a Warfingers office, where there had arisen some question of a missing case of condensed milk. Within half an hour he was at Scotland Yard. A tall man with tired grey eyes, about the corners of which were tiny wrinkles, with a weather-beaten face and grey moustache, he aimed to look something like a riverside tradesman. There was a meekness in his manner and speech that deceived people who did not know his reputation. He spoke five languages fluently, and two more indifferently. Along the banks of the thirty-five mile stretch of river for which he was responsible, he had waged incessant warfare on thieves and receivers for thirty years, till now practically all serious crime had disappeared. He it was who, a dozen years before, had fought hand to hand with a naked and greased river-thief, armed with a knife, in a swaying boat and a black-friars' bridge. He too solved the mystery of a man found dead in the Thames, who had been identified by a woman as her husband, a dare-devil adventurer, an unscrupulous blackmailer, who was declared by a doctor and a coroner's jury to have been murdered. Step by step he had traced it all out, from the moment when a seaman on a vessel moored at one of the wharves had taken a fancy to bathe, and being unable to swim had fastened a line round his waist and jumped overboard. He had neglected to make the end on board properly fast and was swept away by the current. The rape had tweled around him and as the body swelled became fixed. A blow on the head from the propeller of a tug completed a maze of circumstantial evidence, which might have served as an excuse to most men for giving up the problem. Yet Rington had solved it, and the record, which had never seen the light of publicity, was hidden in the archives of the service. This was the man Foil had now called in. He stood with stooping shoulders nervously twisting his shabby hat, apparently ill at ease. His nervousness dropped from him like a garment, however, when he spoke. Foil made clear to him the purpose of the excursion they were to embark on. Very good, sir, he said. If you think the man you want is on the river, we will find him. I guess, as you say, he's got a job as a watchman. He's probably had to get somebody to buy a barge, for they don't give these jobs without some kind of reference. A reference could easily have been forged, but that doesn't matter. How soon can you get your men together? An hour, perhaps two, they're scattered all over the place. I sent out to fetch him before I left whopping. Three or four will be enough. With Green and yourself and myself, we should be able to tackle anything. Have a launch and a motorboat at Westminster Bridge Pier in a couple of hours' time, if you can borrow them off someone so that they don't look like police-craft, so much the better. I can do it, sir. Good. In two hours' time, then. And Helden Foil turned away, dismissing the subject from his mind. Green had gone upstairs to find how Grant of the Fingerprint Department had progressed in his scrutiny of the Fingerprints on the advertisement. He found his specialist colleague with a big enlargement of the paper, on which the advertisement had been written, mounted on pasteboard, and propped up in front of him, side by side with an enlargement of the prints found on the dagger. Any luck, asked Green? Grant shifted his magnifying glass to another angle and grunted. Can't tell yet, he said irritably. I've only just started. Go away. Sorry I spoke, old chap, said the other. Don't shoot. I'm going. Grant rested his chin on one elbow and stared sourly at the intruder. Great heavens, he said. Isn't it enough to have two of my men ill when there are four hundred prints to classify, to have three newspaper reporters, and a party of American sociological researchers down on me in one day without—but Green had fled to the more tranquil quarters on the first floor. Mr. Foil asking for you, sir, said the clerk. He pulled open the door of the superintendent's room. Foil had got his hat and coat on. Blake swired that the woman has taken a ticket for Liverpool, he said. He's gone on the same train. Now that's settled. Let's see if we can't hurry Rington up. CHAPTER XXXII In the corner of the first-class carriage furthest away from the platform, the Princess Petrovska sat with her hands on her lap and a rug around her knees, glancing idly from under her long eyelashes at the people thronging the Houston departure platform. Her eyes rested incuriously now and again upon a couple of men who stood in conversation by a pile of luggage some distance away, but within eye-shot of the compartment. She had some vague recollection of having seen one of the men before, and though she remained apparently languidly interested in the business of the platform, she was racking her brains to think who he was or where she had seen him. It was recently she was certain. Suddenly she leaned forward and her smooth brow contracted in a frown. Yes, she was nearly certain. She had an overcoat and a silk hat on now, but when she last saw him he had been a bare-headed, frock-coated clerk in the advertisement office of The Daily Wire. The frown disappeared and she dropped back, but behind the placid face an alert brain was working. Had the man followed her or was it a mere coincidence? Was he a detective? With an effort of will she still the apprehension in her breast. Her confidence reasserted itself. Even if he were a detective, what had she to fear? She had merely delivered a cipher advertisement over the counter. It was unlikely that it would be read by others than the person for whom it was intended. Even if it were, there was nothing in it to incriminate her. Her lips parted in a contemptuous smile. I don't believe he is a detective at all, she murmured. All doubts on the subject, however, were set at rest as the express began to glide out of the station. As they taken unaware by its departure the man hastily shook hands with his friend and sprinted for the train, swinging himself into the woman's compartment with a gasp of relief. View, he said, and narrow shade that, and then, as if realising the sex of his companion, I beg your pardon, I hope the carriage is not reserved. If so, I will change." She smiled, winningly at him. No, don't disturb yourself, I beg. It would be a pity after all the trouble you have taken to catch the train. Detective Inspector Blake was not by any means dull. His immobile features gave no sign that he was half inclined to believe the woman was jiving him. Now, what the devil does she mean by that, he said, under his breath. He bowed in acknowledgment of her courtesy, and drawing a paper from his pocket unfolded it. And how is the charming Mr. Foyle, said the princess, speaking with a soft drawl. I do hope he is still well. This time Blake was taken unawares. He dropped the paper as though it were red hot, and the woman laughed. A moment later he was ashamed of himself. She had trapped him into a tacit admission that he was a detective. A surprised denial of acquaintance with Mr. Foyle might have ended in an apology on her part for a mistake, while it was too late now. So you are a colleague of Mr. Foyle, she went on, and though her voice was soft, there was a trace of mockery in it. He is charmingly considerate to send you to look after me. I was desolated to think that I should have to take such a long journey by myself. The pleasure is mine, said Blake, falling in quickly with the atmosphere she had set. Nevertheless he was not quite easy. He recalled the troubles that had beset Waverly, and half regretted that he had not brought his companion on the train with him. Smoke if you like, she said, with the gracious wave of her hand. I know you are dying to do so. Again we can talk. Do you know I have long wished to have a talk with a real detective. Your work must be so fascinating." He took a cigarette case slowly from his pocket and dangled it in his hand. He had never before seen the princess, but he was certain of her identity. Indeed, he said grimly, I thought you had met Mr. Foyle. In fact, I believe that he afforded you some opportunity of seeing a portion of the workings of our police system. Do you smoke? May I offer you a cigarette? She selected one daintily. Thank you, but that was different. I don't think it quite nice of you to refer to it. It was all a mistake. Mr. Foyle will tell you so if you ask him. Do detectives often make mistakes? Her air of refreshing innocence tickled Blake. He laughed. Sometimes, he admitted, I made a mistake just now in coming on this train alone. She laughed musically in pure amusement. I believe the man is afraid of me, she said, addressing the ceiling, then more directly. Why, what harm could a poor creature like myself do to a great store what man like you I should have thought you'd greater sense? Common sense is my strong point, he parried. And therefore you are afraid, she laughed. Come, Mr. Mr. Smith, John Smith. Mr. John Smith, then, it's a good English name. I shan't do you any harm, but if you like to lose sight of me when we reach Liverpool, well, it would be worth fifty pounds to you. He shook his head. I am afraid, Princess, you have a very poor opinion of the London police. Besides, I told you just now that common sense was my strong point. She shrugged her shoulders for answer. The train droned on. They had lunch together and chatted on like old friends. It was when they had returned to their own compartment and the train was nearing Liverpool that Blake found his cigarettes had run short. The Princess produced a daintyly-jeweled enameled case. Won't you try one of mine, she asked? That is, if you care for Egyptian. He took one. What harm would there be in a cigarette? Yet in half an hour's time when the train slowed into Lyme Street station, the Princess descended to the platform alone. In his corner of the compartment Blake slumbered.